tROLLfICdiddlyumptious
by ChekhovTheTroper
Summary: At 14, I believed Willy Wonka to be a psychopath…at 15, nothing has changed. This comes from the warped mindset of 2012, and I'm willing to confess it now. *Tim Burton Movieverse*
1. I

**DISCLAIMER: All Chocolate Factory-related material are in legal possession of Roald Dahl, Mel Stuart, and Tim Burton…as for legal possession of Johnny Depp, I'm working on that.**

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Augustus Gloop is what he eats. That is what he's been told his whole life. He ventures through the endless halls of confections, and emerges with his mother's praise of what a wonderful son he is. His father replies with a gruff nod and a quick chop—_thwack!_—through a bird's neck. He knows it sounds stupid, but with how his mother smiles at him, something that he had never seen before, he feels unusual warmth in his head and smiles back.

His eyes are logy and the warmth he feels now is not as satisfying. It never occurs to him that being as gluttonous as he is would be so punishable. He doesn't feel cold like he did in his babyhood or his early nothing-glow years spent in the coldest corner of his kitchen. He talked to people about it before, but they never responded; they simply hung around. It was a candy bar that saved him, discarded by a bratty customer. His parents had forgotten to feed Augustus his breakfast (they still do), so Augustus had gone for broke.

Euphoria was the best way to describe it, the relaxing taste settling into the roof of his mouth. He had pleaded for another from them, but the kid spat at him and laughed, causing the mother to drag him out with great embarrassment. Mrs. Gloop rushed in and giggled at how her son's face was smeared with chocolate. Even Mr. Gloop resigned to a few chuckles. Whenever Augustus's parents forgot to feed him, he was able to find a stool to help him reach for the shelves. The ceramic jars were no longer riddled with dust; there was a constant affluence of pastries inside. He would constantly drink from the tap, as there were little glasses to be found in their minute household. His bones rested easy in morbid pillows of girth, and it was rare to see him smile without a single smudge on his face. He looked in the mirror everyday and thumbed at the corners of his mouth, until his parents requested him to come out. No hostility, no regret—the gentleness of his parents' voices tugged those corners into a smile.

When Augustus wakes up, there is nothing opiate in his mouth. Instead, it is bitter and acrid. Vision settles and he sees that he is still immersed in chocolate. He licks his lips and gags, surprised at the unrecognizable taste. His eyes dance at the looming gadgetry before him. Stirring—stretching—stomping—scorching! Out come immaculate squares of strawberry-flavored, chocolate-coated fudge, adorned with thin borders of icing. They are scooped up onto flowery plates, and the Oompa-Loompas wrap them in cellophane. Augustus wonders if they ever taste-test anything first, and tries to reach out a curious hand.

Something holds him back. He is out of breath and aching severely. He dips his gaze down, and sees a manacle encircling his chest. His arms and legs are chained, too, and he discovers that he is connected to a metal chair. He is about to call for help, but pneumatic doors behind him open. Augustus tries to turn his head, but cannot see anything beyond a sick, twisting shadow.

"I wouldn't ask for them, if I were you," a low voice says. The Oompa-Loompas are carrying on with their day, exchanging snide remarks and solemn workroom humor. They are obstructed by a large window, and something taps against it.

Augustus sees the man stand before him. All Willy Wonka accessories are present: his tall hat tilts, his coat billows, and he is holding his cane. He taps against the window again. "Soundproof," Wonka affirms. He looks down, preparing to walk away, but spins on his heels. The cane strikes the window, but not a single crack creeps onto the glass. "Indestructible, as well. I guess there's more to this factory than a chocolate waterfall."

"Mr. Wonka!" Augustus cheers. "Mr. Wonka, I am so glad to see you!"

Wonka flexes his hand, fiddling with the cane. He looks at Augustus and smiles icily. "I see you're in a mess, little boy."

Augustus nods, remorseless. "Your chocolate river is fantastic! Are you sure I can't take a gallon home?"

"I will see to it when I finish disinfecting the river," Wonka mutters under his breath.

"But something is wrong with it. I don't taste so good now."

Wonka sniggers, looking at the boy. The dumb helplessness of the situation is too good to be true. His eyes narrow. Colors twine and flash before Wonka's vision, clouding the little boy in a temporary resonance. He advances closer to him.

Augustus is about to say something, but Wonka waggles his finger. "I've requested some Grooming-Loompas to take care of this, ahem, _mess_ we'll say. Consider it a token of my gratitude."

"Oh, no, Mr. Wonka," Augustus shakes his head. "I owe you _my_ gratitude."

Something glazes in Wonka's eyes, but he blinks and teeters on his feet. He mumbles inaudibly. Augustus tilts his head like a timid cat, but Wonka sighs and resumes.

"Don't worry about me—I have an extreme headache. Do you? You must after the experience you've had!"

"No." Augustus replies. "I don't feel anything."

"Really?" Wonka leans closer, reaching out and pinching Augustus neck. No response, rather than a light laugh from the boy. Wonka pulls back and veers around the boy. "Hmm. This is odd."

"There's something funny about the river," Augustus says. "I've tasted many chocolate flavors before, such as caramel and coconut and walnut and peanut brittle and sprinkle-icing and even mint! This tastes nothing like chocolate. For a moment, I thought it was burnt bread!"

Wonka laughs, throwing his head back. His cane makes a scuttling sound against the floor, like mice's feet. "Now how on Earth would I work burnt bread into my hectic candy repertoire?"

"Didn't you once try to make that into a lollipop flavor? The Central Station Candy Commotions in 1985?"

"Correct and incorrect! It was April Fool's Day, and what a funny joke it was! You should've seen the look on Professor Cruz's face. He believed himself to be a professional taste-tester, but here we are!"

There's a faint _click._ Augustus perks as something seems to float over his back. There is little feeling rather than a slight tickle. It repeats itself several times, and whiffs out like a candle on the windowsill. He is unsure how to feel, especially when Wonka circles around to face him again. There is a jovial glitter in his dark blue eyes, something that was too expensive to show for the cluttered tourists.

Augustus is afraid to look down, but he does. A long, needlelike blade protrudes from the cane, and it is streaked with red. Wonka's eyes scan Augustus' stomach, which overflows against its shackles. A small smile grows with a flickering glare, and it is more savage than anything that drops onto the floor.

"Have you ever sung on the job?" Wonka asks feverishly, holding the cane high. It shakes, drops down, and crosses Augustus's stomach. The boy's eyes widen, but remain focused on Wonka. "I mean, have you ever enjoyed yourself too much and you can't help but sing a little tune that's stuck in your head?"

Augustus garbles in response, unsure if he should say anything. This feeling that leaks out of him isn't pain; but there is a queasy rhythm in his heartbeat now, so perhaps it is no-pain. Yes, the no-pain is eating at him—

Wonka assures the mental consensus by bringing the cane across Augustus's face. Augustus writhes against the restrains, face desperate for a dreamlike epiphany to wash over him and wake him up. Wonka shakes his head, as if thoroughly reading the boy's thoughts like a new recipe.

"I have many things stuck in my head right now," Wonka swings the cane again, watching Augustus's wounds pucker from every movement. "You probably wouldn't want to hear them. It's not as droll as you'd expect."

Augustus feels inebriated by no-pain, now, for Wonka's cane is twirling and skating swiftly over his stomach. Wonka is still talking, but the words swim around his ears at a muzzy pace. He speaks so ardently, although Wonka's stoic eyes compensate for that. Augustus believes that he hears songs pour out of the man's mouth, but the genuine lilt in Wonka's voice frightens him. Does he truly enjoy this? Who would enjoy doing this to a child?

_Who would enjoy doing this to a child?_

Something inhuman rips through the air, thinly distinguished as a scream. Augustus can't believe that it is his own, but he also can't believe the images that flash through his mind. The blue bulb flutters in the chill that puffs around a little boy's head. This little boy is rubbing bruises on his arm and his eyes are swollen from crying. There is yelling beyond a large door, many knives clanking together in a frantic rush while Mrs. Gloop holds her face in her hands. Birds and pigs greet him with upturned faces. The boy asks if they are smiling at him—no reply. He asks if they are laughing at him. The question ghosts around his cheeks, and he simply talks, more accepting of listeners than furious chatterboxes.

"Augustus?"

Augustus shakes his head, ridding himself of the images. He tries to speak, but the reverb of his scream hits his ears and the feeling of a sore throat follows shortly thereafter. Augustus nods, gasping and bemused.

Wonka crouches in front of him, tapping the boy's cheek with a gloved hand. His face furrows in concern. "Augustus, are you okay? You were out for a long time."

"Yes?"

"Your mother is waiting for you in the Puppet Hospital and Burn Treatment Center," Wonka waves his hand. A monitor peeks from the ceiling and Mrs. Gloop is sitting in a chair much too small for her portliness. Augustus's jaw hangs dry like a landed fish. _Mother._ The word nests in the pit of his throat.

Wonka shrugs. "I'm not used to having human patients. All they do is align dislocated limbs, repair any fractured body part, and of course polish every hair spotless. Human anatomy though…" Wonka breaks off, searching for a new conversation. "I hope curiosity hasn't killed the cat yet."

"I'm sorry." Augustus no longer speaks with unsympathetic zeal. He is unsure why he should be sorry, but with the man's authenticity, he fears to feel anything else.

"It's OK. There was a time the Oompa-Loompas spent their days lounging in the river. The toffee-drills were left unattended; the snozzberry rakes were left to rust. Now, where ever would the toffee drops or snozzberry wine be? I can't go a day without either of them, or the after-dark-darkness will swallow me whole!"

"Were they…punished?"

"Punished?" Wonka rolls his eyes indignantly. "Why would I punish them? A candy-coated inquisition would send me straight to the media's gallows."

Wonka pulls out something from his collar. It is a silver toy flute that twiddles in between his fingers. A sharp tune dithers from the instrument. Augustus flinches, and ignores Wonka's dubious expression. Wonka, knowing what he would ask, he lectures him. "Whenever there is an emergency, I play a specific tune and an equally specific arrangement of Oompa-Loompas will arrive. The one I played will bring the Nurse-Loompas here. Do you think I can be able to request a larger stretcher for you?"

"You—they can't hear you. You said the room is soundproof."

"Now, when did I say that?" Wonka taps the flute into his coat pocket. "You have an active imagination, don't you little boy?"

"But you said—and then the cane—smacked the window! It didn't break the glass."

"Do you really want me to prove it?" Wonka sighs, cane hitching in his grip. He twirls it several times, adjusting it to a certain angle, and charges at the window with the end of his cane. Glass shatters, skittering around like marbles. Wonka jumps, letting out a yelp when some shards peek through his gloves. An acute pang wells up and thickens, but Wonka does not pluck them out. Instead, he tents his fingers over his hands, popping a few knuckles. "This is the last time I prove my honesty to a young lad. From now on, just take my words to the bank and keep them safe, yes?"

Augustus does not reply.

The pneumatic doors open again, and a collection of Nurse-Loompas clad in bright, buttoned uniforms diffuse. One of them glances at the window, and then at the tall man. "You need to control these episodes, Wonka. You're upsetting the boy."

"I was giving him an ethics lesson."

"Sure." A simple stretcher is set on the floor. Something peculiar about it is the dark stains, which piques another slew of questions in Augustus's head. Didn't he say he never had any human patients?

"You know what," Wonka claps his hands together, smiling with newfound radiance, "we've gotten off on the wrong foot. Our guests are a little shaken up now, but I think the storm is calming down. How about we start over with some treats?"

The Nurse-Loompas cheer, tiny faces ecstatic. Wonka saunters over to a cluster of machinery. In the midst of it, a red button flares. Punching it with his cane, Wonka taps his foot and hums an elevator melody. In a few minutes, several robotic claws present Augustus and the fellow workers fresh courses of fudge. The Nurse-Loompas snap their fingers and lurch over the plates, but Wonka holds a hand up.

"Not until our guest decides how it is." Wonka carefully picks up a square and looms over Augustus. "Now, you're not going to begin the fasting without a single taste?"

Augustus snatches it without help from his hands, biting on Wonka's fingers. Wonka recoils, wiping his fingers on his coat. Augustus grins with relief. It is the most delicious piece of fudge he's had in last few days. "This is amazing, Mr. Wonka! You need to try it!"

"Silly little boy, I am a chocolatier, not a Hungry-Hungry Hippo. I sell these to the general public, and since I am not general, that would appear rather uncouth of me to be eating my own products."

At this point, Augustus can hardly hear a thing. He gulps it down, feeling the commonness return and comfort him.

"Alright!" Wonka sounds the Loompa audience. "Dig in!"

The Nurse-Loompas take their time, savoring the flavor and exchanging a mouthful of jokes amongst messier mouthfuls. Augustus's mouth creases, contemplating the name of this fudge's new flavor. This is nothing like strawberry. In fact, this isn't like anything he's had before.

"In case you haven't noticed," Wonka spiels, "I've incorporated a new flavor into our famous strawberry-flavored, chocolate-coated fudge. It took a lot of tinkering and overflowing trash bins, but I think I've gotten to the resolution. However, the creative process is worth it. Remember that, for it is a well-known rule of thumb."

An ululating cackle comes from one of the Nurse-Loompas. He cups his mouth and wipes away the crumbs that dribble down his chin.

"Hey, now, let's show some professionalism about this. I'm trying to instill some _esprit de corpse_—oh, I mean _corps_. Pardon me."

Acidic laughter fountains up. Augustus glances all around, but begins to feel lightheaded. He feels empty, for some reason, like something has been cut from him. He turns to Wonka. "May I please have another square?"

Wonka dismisses the hysterical Nurse-Loompas and politely presents Augustus with another piece of fudge. Augustus complies, but with less slobbering greed. He chews tentatively, watching Wonka hush the workers with a kind smile.

"See? You're making one of our lucky children uncomfortable. I'm unsure if such dark humor bubbles up in a child's mind, so my apology is prepared when necessary. Who knows? I may be pulling his leg and he'll have to walk it off somehow."

Augustus feels that lightness again, but it is accentuated by a sluggish burning sensation. He savors the taste, trying to decipher it like a secret clubhouse code. No fruity nature, nothing seems to be processed or sugary—it somehow compliments the thick coat of chocolate—but the faltering foreboding is preparing to reach its crescendo.

Something strikes him with summertime transience, but he is able to fully understand. There is a yellowing blotch on his hand, held together by slovenly stitches. He tries staggering to his feet, but cannot, as he is still chained to the metal chair. A tic in his cheek causes a latent thread on his face to loosen already. There is pure blindness in one eye, as well as no comfort when it rolls with the other working one. In a single rest, all his proud breadth has been shed. He is so dilapidated, so plastic, and _oh-so doll-like._

With one fearful glance, he sees Wonka toying with the cane in his hand, but finally finds it to be caked with dark, drying blood. The blade does not appear, but Augustus can already see it shying through like a rude child sticking out his tongue. Wonka cries happily, "Oh, we've established the bare bones, haven't we!"

Augustus cranes his head to the side, retching violently. He does not look at Wonka again, for it will only intensify everything. The laughter continues, but it is underwater and deeply considered. The looks in the throng of Loompas' eyes, no longer memorable and uppity enough to feel Oompa, is of unanimous acceptance. They seem to be viewing an instruction manual rather than a hurt child.

Another button is pressed, and Augustus goes slack when the restrains are unhooked. He falls to the floor, sputtering and coughing up several empty sobs. He heaves again, but feels dry in the aftermath, lying in his own sick. Wonka pats his head, drawing circles on the ground with his filthy cane.

"You know, I was actually wrong about you. I figured that Augustus-flavored, chocolate-coated Gloop would be a terrible taste. However, it seems I may have a new invention on my hand. In fact…"

Augustus did not see something delve through the floor, nor the bolted metal stretching apart. In his half-gaze and apologetic reminisce of no-pain, he does not expect the renewed submergence. He struggles to reach the surface, vision now obscured by thick droplets of chocolate. However, something pushes him down, and whenever Augustus manages to grope his way back to the surface, the face he sees is not the face of a chocolatier. It smiles unbecomingly, the glimmer in his eyes gyrating. This is a wraith that stares Augustus down. Knowing this, it dips Augustus back down, hand knotting into the boy's head easily.

The water does not appear to be chocolate anymore. This isn't a vat of river water, but a grimy bathtub that stands on claws. The water is too cold, too sudsy, and a string of German curses twist out of Mr. Gloop's once-bearded mouth. _Faules Junge! Sohn der Dirne! Sie sind ohne Abzahlung; Ich wünsche Sie Tote!_ Augustus's shrinking self could never understand those words, but the pudgy fingers that turns his small head at pendulum-like angles are crystal clear.

The cyclic pain ends with a harsh yank, and the bathwater has thickened. Mr. Gloop is quiet and sedated, but Willy Wonka's face shows anticlimax. One of the Nurse-Loompas is gagging in the background, face contorting with abstract disgust.

"Tsk." Wonka says, visibly disappointed. "You're not as saccharine as I expected. Oh well, I've got some leftovers to savor."

Augustus drops to the floor, scrambling from the large vat. His half-gaze rouses with great pain, and something bounces onto the floor. Augustus thumbs at it, and finds it to be a wooden eyeball. The color is bright baby blue, but something about it is relatively darker.

Wonka considers probing through the deep wound, but disregards it as the Nurse-Loompas crowd around Augustus, stretcher in hand. "Take Mrs. Gloop's son to the Puppet Hospital. Whatever you do, don't feed him the Behr-gloss tonic. That's only reserved for the dolls in case they wake up thirsty."

Augustus does not hear Wonka. He cannot even feel the many Loompas flip him onto the stretcher face down. Everything molts into numb chiaroscuro nothingness. Mr. Gloop is tending to the birds again; Mrs. Gloop is wiping away her tears before the reporters arrive. Augustus tries to think of that, and not the freezer or the bathtub. He tries not to belittle himself, or even consider the word "little", but a triumphant voice that booms over his head tugs him into a languished slumber:

_ Congratulations, Augustus Gloop—you really ARE what you eat!_

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**A/N: …oh boy, how do I explain this?**

**About a year ago, my grimdark 14 year-old self realized a pattern w/ these kind of torturefics: it is all style over substance. They only care about shocking and disgusting the reader rather than give the villains/victims any characterization. So, I had planned on writing a grimdark 2005 Chocolate Factory fanfic. Something about the adaptation was so awkward and superfluous, especially Johnny Depp's characterization of the candyman himself, that I wanted to analyze the darker possibilities.**

**Unfortunately, I discovered quickly that people would not see a torturefic w/ characters and effort. No, they'd see amature torture porn that implies that I want this to happen to these children. Not wanting to be nailed to a chocolatey cross, I aborted this idea; but recently, my cousin Andrew (yes, ****_you_**** xp) and my best friend convinced me to write this as a trollfic for family and friends only. However, when they read this chapter, they fell in love w/ this story and wheedled me into posting this on here. Even my walking spellcheck Mom told me to, and she hates any kind of torture in stories! :0**

**So, technically, this is a trollfic, but I feel as though this is self-trolling. I'm not making fun of anyone who reads this, but of myself b/c there was a time I thought this would be a touching story. O.o**

**Leave a review and tell me what you thought of this…and pwease don't hate me :/**

**-Peace from the gun-troper**

**(PS, this is the German to English translation: _Lazy Boy! Son of the damsel! You are without deferred terms; I wish you dead!_)**


	2. II

**DISCLAIMER: ****_Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _****is not in my possession. Oh well. Maybe if I send Mr. Dahl some cookies he'll change his mi—*someone whispers in my ear* What? He's dead? Never mind. *throws cookies into fireplace***

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Something to take note of in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory is the decorations. Lights dart across the ceiling, bending around the clusters of machinery. Gadgets and thingamabobs purr incessantly; the sound rises and falls like fey, restless wraiths. Conveyer belts are studded with an array of candy. Thick ropes of taffy bleed from the walls, knotted by small, convenient hands. Colorful mist billows from above and trails behind the passerby wherever they go.

Violet Beauregarde did not see that in the Juicing Room, nor in this place. This room is dark and dank, punctuated by a dim periwinkle light. She lies on a table and writhes from inertia when she tries to sit up. She is surprised that the process was already done, but wonders when she passed out for that. In fact, did she even pass out? The light flickers above her, and it spills over a long mirror. The bloated blueberry that rolled around the factory is gone; with sluggish realization, she unfurls her legs and not a bone in her body protests.

She staggers up, but folds over her knees. Giggling out of shock, she searches for something to steady her. Several pipes outstretch above her, one of them wrapped in wilting tape. Violet tilts her head, and then crouches down as if preparing to perform a new karate move. She leaps and grasps onto the pipe. Hanging on, she laughs loudly and starts to swing. Her eyes are closed and she imagines fresh sunlight on her face.

_Fresh sunlight on her face_—the backyard flowers with pinks and reds and yellows. Dinner's in ten, Mom says, and Violet can smell the cherry pie already. She can lick her lips and taste undeniable sweetness. She tastes and feels it all, but she does not want to hear the motor of a red truck in the driveway—

"Hey!" someone calls from below. Violet glances down, but squints when a downpour of fluorescent lights occurs. When everything is alight, she sees an impatient smile peek from the brim of a top hat. "You better get down, or you'll feel it in the morning."

"Mr. Wonka!" Violet lets go, but scrambles around as she falls. Wonka catches her before she can hit the ground. Violet immediately hugs him, letting out a slipstream of elated laughter. Wonka is not as repulsed as before, but he pats her head tentatively and sets her down. He steps back, and she is still smiling from ear to ear. "Mr. Wonka, look at me! I'm flexible now."

"But you're blue." Wonka says.

"Well, I can live with that. Besides, I'll be the first child athlete to have blue skin."

"You'd be the _only_ child athlete to have blue skin. Nothing's great if there's no competition. However, I have something that will take care of that." Wonka fishes through his coat pockets and pulls out a vial. He thumbs at the cork and nods. "Potion. I used them for the Oompa-Loompas when they became blueberries. Just drink this and in about a week, you're back to normal."

In the background, several rotund figures collide. They turn and see a few Oompa-Loompas rolling around. They have lidded eyes and inaudible voices.

"Of course, a few of them are too stubborn to listen," Wonka shakes his head censurably, sliding the vial into his pocket. "I wouldn't worry. They're not as lenient to their bellies blowing up like regular people are. No, they'll just pull a roly-poly and refuse to get into the juicer. If they don't comply, I can't give them this and they can't get better."

"Was I awake for the juicing?"

Wonka cringes, drumming his fists on his knees. "No, but it wasn't pretty to watch."

"I doubt it!" Violet's gaze swivels around, and she notices something is absent. "Hey, where's that cool cane of yours?"

Wonka deems this to be irrelevant and finds a new topic quickly. "I wish you children would actually listen to me. Maybe this won't happen again."

"I'm glad I didn't." Violet ventures through the room with a few cartwheels and front aerials. She even attempts a headstand and whirls around. She squeals and continues until she feels someone grab her ankles. Wonka clicks his tongue, yanking her up. From upside-down, she doesn't know if he is frowning or not.

"You know, you really shouldn't do that right now. You keep moving around like that, your brittle bones could break."

"Would not!"

"Your muscles will contract when you drink the potion and you'll ache all over. Think of this as a challenge."

"Oh! Okay!" Violet hops back onto the ground. She flips her hair and finds her piece of gum is still plastered behind her ear. She plucks it off and pops it into her mouth.

Wonka sighs. "And you're _still_ chewing gum. Let's pray you don't become a watermelon next."

"Nah, this doesn't even have a flavor anymore. Three months straight, remember?" Violet resumes her boastful grin.

She jumps when a television screen peeks through the pipes. However, the image that ripples on-screen is a screenshot of two women in the Doll Hospital's waiting room. One woman overflows in the tiny seat, but next to her is a very fit and _very_ angry Mrs. Beauregarde. She is gnawing on the inside of her cheek, face knitted and working. Violet steps back, feeling heavy in her stomach, like that time she lost a soccer game and her mother sped their way home. It is scary to see her mother mad, and Violet knows there are a lot of apologies she needs to salvage when she sees her again.

The image wavers through a series of hums before shutting off. Wonka's face purses apathetically. "As frustrated as I am with you, it's because you got hurt. She encouraged you, so why should she have her sweatpants in a twist?"

"She always gets mad." Violet shrugs.

Wonka is stunned by the little girl's casual attitude. "Really?"

"Yeah. She's gotten mad at me about everything since I was seven."

"About three years—that's a lot to be mad about."

"It's OK. I've seen worse."

"What about your father?" Wonka asks with abrupt fascination. Violet does not respond; she continues with her monotonous chewing. Regret surfaces and Wonka stares ahead. With a contrite smile, he requests, "Tell me more about your early childhood."

Violet crawls back onto the table, feet kicking lazily from the edge. Wonka joins, sitting next to her. His hands fold over each other, and he is examining the girl's face. She is impassive, but he knows there are memories brewing in her hazel eyes. She blinks them away and looks at him.

"I don't remember much. I…I played in the backyard a lot. Mom wasn't as into sports or competition, unless it's a baking contest. She bakes the best pies! I wish she'd make them more, but she's afraid we'll get fat if we eat a lot."

"Then I wonder why you're in a chocolate factory. Why, I doubt you even ate any of those candy bars!"

"I did, too!" Violet squares her shoulders. "When I accept a challenge, I stick to my word. I had to extend my hours on the treadmill from three to five and the diet was cut to more produce and protein. But Mom bought six candy bars a day, and we both ate three."

"Hmm."

"One of my coaches found the golden ticket and tried to steal it for her daughter. Mom kicked her ass, to put it plainly."

"Has she always been this angry towards others?"

"I already told you. What is this room anyway?"

"Well," Wonka stammers, "this is the Pastry Smithsonian. We have remains of great childhood mythical characters. One of them is Johnmark Smith, a delusional derelict who believed that he saw the entire afterlife coated in chocolate malt. Another is Miss Marygold, and she was a descendent from the Great Fields who was tempted into stealing sugar-tits along with stuff you'll learn about in about three or four years. Then there's—"

"Mr. Wonka, I get it."

"Was I being sarcastic? Well, my apologies, but this isn't the Juicing Room or the Pastry Smithsonian. Both are upstairs, and don't miss the left whatever you do. I guess this is just a room. This is where I keep disobedient and injured Oompa-Loompas until further notice."

"So it's kinda like a Reject Room?"

Wonka contemplates a response, but smiles meekly instead. A light glaze quivers in his eyes. Violet studies it and wonders if he is about to bawl his eyes out in front of her. He doesn't, but she can sense the itching and the heaviness. There have been many times she's felt that. The motor rumbles in her head again and she discards it posthaste.

Wonka pulls something out, but it isn't the potion. It is his small flute again, but a supple melody does not float around her ears. It is a harsh whistling sound that summons a horde of scuttling feet. It is the Oompa-Loompas and they are dressed in all black. They wear their work-goggles, which buzz with neon lights. Violet thinks of a movie she watches a lot, a horror film about mutant flies that attack a modest town; perhaps they saw it, too, otherwise they wouldn't look like that.

_What is that?_ Violet sees them drop something with an unflattering _clank!_ It is a black metal box, and it is latched shut. Wonka turns to the child, pointing at her lips. Her tongue prods through with the flattened strip of gum, which Wonka pinches off.

"Don't want you to choke on this," Wonka says soberly, turning away. "Do you have the tools they requested?"

"Yes," an Oompa-Loompa replies. "Now, about the girl—"

"Please—it's just—not something that's very nice…"

Violet opens her mouth to say something, but does not stretch her arms and legs to each corner of the table. The Oompa-Loompas' empathy is obscured by the vermillion glow of their goggles. Her wrists and ankles are gnarled around the circular gaps at each end of the table; she is now regretting her newfound flexibility. A curious Loompa twangs her muscles the way a boy strums his brand new guitar.

A large hand strikes him on the back of his head. When he falls to the ground, Wonka appears loftier in clear eyeshot. _"Don't touch her!"_

Wide eyes drill into the candyman's glare. The various workers simply nod at the imbalanced Loompa. Violet is still staring at Wonka, who veers to the black box on the floor. He stops, appears to have lost balance himself, but only totters before finally standing still. He does not face her, but picks up the box and flicks the latch open. He lifts his face, as if in prayer. He is mumbling softly, but he begins to weep. "No, no I can't I just—no, please—please don't do this to—not me, her, _please don't make me do this to her._"

The lid flips over, and a scanty supply of tools carries a stale glint. Violet can barely comprehend what they're doing, but jerks against the table when the Oompa-Loompas approach her and hook a large ball gag into her mouth. _Everlasting gobstopper_, she thinks. _I can suck on it all day, but it never gets smaller._

Then, something drapes her vision in darkness. This happens to her often, mostly when she tries to sleep. She only complies with steady slumber for the sake of being vigilant and prepared for an upcoming competition. There was a time when Mrs. Beauregarde never seemed to care about competition at all, and Violet wonders why. The darkness has all the answers with no easy way out of it. They begin with lush home videos stored in the back of her skull. They are trivial ones with so much optimism, it makes her cringe. Violet went to the beach like every other little girl; she played in the backyard with leisure. There were only two trophies in the living room—2nd Place in the Spelling Bee and the Science Fair—and her mother never complained about a failed grade or the absence of a blue ribbon garland. She was normally found in the kitchen, experimenting with many failed recipes and passing on the tedious hair-salon prattle. Violet examines these thoughts and discovers something she overlooked: starting when she was seven and tinkering with some toys in the backyard, she became acquainted with the rumbling motor—

_ No, not that sound._ She desperately tries to discard the memory of the rusted truck, the motor idling underneath a bulbous hood, and her smiling father who would always ask her if she wanted to visit his auto store to look at some new models. Then there is the memory of her mother screaming, crying as two big men tell her that Daddy needs to go away. Violet kicked them when they tried to hold her, clambering away from the sad faces and into her room. _Don't think of that_, Violet's thoughts beseech. _Think of something else!_

Her thoughts begrudgingly turn to Wonka, and how strange he is. No, not the wonderful candyman she met at the entrance. This is not him at all! Instead, this is a monster, who could be grinning down at her right now like a lion observing his wounded prey. However, she recalls the many tears that dribbled down his face, and the way he rambled feverishly about not wanting to hurt her. Who was he talking to? His eyes were haywire and there wasn't any biting sarcasm in his voice. It was as if someone else was to be introduced. Despite the wrenching thought, Violet believes that he was talking to a similar Daddy or two big men with shining badges and sad, sad faces.

Violet does not scream, and she does not beg for help. It is pointless and fatigue already overcomes the many things her mind brews. The fragmented puzzlement, the irremediable need to know _why_—such a mental whirlwind disgusts Violet. She feels so dumb, not realizing this sooner. How could she figure it out, though? Could others have figured it out? She doesn't want help; she only wants to run like hell. That's what she's done for the last three years. Her legs struggle once or twice, wanting to take off. She doesn't want to see the grinning faces anymore or feel the aching pain from thinking about it.

The gag is removed and she is doused in a sluice of fluorescent lights. Discolored spots dance around her vision, but there are two things that linger in eyeshot. The Oompa-Loompas have strewed farther away from her, caught in deadpan whispers. Wonka is boxing up the gag and blindfold, unable to look at her. Her eyes clench shut, sobs quivering in the back of her throat. All she hears is a fluttering melody and some scuttling feet against the floor.

Wonka dawdles towards the girl. She immediately tries to flinch away when he reaches towards her. He unfastens her knotted left wrist, and when she relaxed enough to allow it, he circles around the table to undo the rest of her limbs. She gasps from the release, massaging her sore wrists. Her ankles pop as she cranes her legs over the table. Wonka cringes at her dilapidated appearance, and he offers to clean her up. She refuses, angrily straightening the waistline of her sweatpants and realizing the zipper on her jacket is broken. When she lifts her head up, she sees the Nurse-Loompas holding the stretcher. Her breath catches, and she is still shaking all over. Tears loll from her eyes, but with her current physical form, they appear as drooling blueberry residue.

"Well, uh," Wonka says uneasily, palming the potion in his hands again. Violet's piece of gum is flattened out on the gloved pad of his thumb. "The next thing we'll have to do is get you to the Doll Hospital. As for this, it's your choice of injection or consumption. Oh, and here's your gum."

Violet's eyes fixate on the dull lump of gum that seems to infuriate her even more. When she stands up, she pads towards him and he crouches down to give her the potion. His thumb flexes, egging her on. She ignores the gum, takes the potion, and, with great asperity, swings the bottle into Wonka's face.

The Nurse-Loompas crowd around her. She screams and slings some of them away from her. In front of her, Willy Wonka has disappeared. His velvet coat has morphed into a plaid, catchpenny suit that is rigid with starch. The man is also covering his face, tending to the shallow cuts on his cheeks from the bottle's impact. He is no longer adorned with any materialistic gaud, but there are latent hints of such an essence. He looks at her, warranting another shrill screech. _"Stop looking at me!"_ The voice pierces through the tepid atmosphere, and Violet does not believe that it is her voice. The Nurse-Loompas stop grappling and she falls to her knees, ignoring the true face of a monster.

Reality bleeds back into proper vision, and Wonka is sharply commanding the Nurse-Loompas to back off, seeing that there is much more potion in the hospital along with a wide range of sedatives. He kneels down to her level again and scoops her into an awkward hug. She pounds her fists against his chest, sobbing hysterically. He shushes her, patting her head. Something once disconnected clicks again and his mind spins when he realizes what has happened to her.

Violet goes slack in his arms, having cried herself to sleep. He gently sets her down on the stretcher and makes various gestures at the observing Oompa-Loompas. They cross their arms and bow, Wonka doing the same before they leave. Wonka watches the Glass Elevator soar upwards until it is out of sight. He flicks the gum onto the floor, and staggers. However, he drops down again and clamps his hands over his face, muffling into them. The fluorescence switches off, one by one, until the pliant glow resurfaces, coiling around his feet.

* * *

**A/N: This is the hardest chapter I ever had to write. EVER. Sure, I joke about how sick and twisted my original draft was, but this chapter is the reason why I didn't want to post this story at first. The fact that any man would ever rape a little girl, let alone _their own daughter_, is just disturbing. However, w/ the edits I've made, it's not as graphic as you'd expect.**

**Well...normally I'd have something funny to say, but anything involving sexual abuse of a child makes me luvvy head reel in disgust. So, I hope you haven't sharpened your pitchforks yet and please leave a review telling me what you think. I need to head to my One Direction concert now.**

**Byeee.**

**-Peace from the gun-troper**


	3. III

**DISCLAIMER: The ****_Chocolate Factory _****has been closed until further notice, but unfortunately, I still don't have possession of it.**

* * *

When the Chocolate Factory was shut down, Willy Wonka saw how dull the plantation itself appeared. He sketched several blueprints, plotting out every single hue of color and whatever enigmatic thought frothed up in his mind. However, when he rushed out to greet his employees with the news, he realized there was no one to greet at all. There was enough money in the safe to last for a while, so Wonka took to the map and arranged a secret vacation to undiscovered territory: Loompaland.

In the darkness of his Happy Place, Wonka laughs at the squalid memory of Loompaland. The flora was gnarled and oozing unpalatable sustenance. There were so many vines to slice through, but they seemed to intertwine when you turned your head away. Fog inched above the ground with condensed murkiness; without warning, the sky would spatter rain onto the weary land, and the cries of unprepared Oompa-Loompas were thunderous. During heavy rainstorms, flowers shied through the dirt, but retreated when the taupe-colored canopy of clouds lessened. Even though the flowers' petals were furled and shimmering, it was best not to prod at them or else they'd belch a stringent stench. Wonka treated these geographical oddities with unusual tact, as if he were scrutinizing imported ingredients before the workers mixed the candies' batters. There was something that lingered amongst the rotting vegetation, but the thought mingled with inspiration and foreboding. Wonka discovered both, the inspiration being his introduction to the Oompa-Loompa tribe; the foreboding being the animals—

Wonka relinquishes the thought. He doesn't want to think about the animals right now. He only thinks about the Oompa-Loompas and how they still brought their cocoa bean shrine with them to the great factory. Their hands were quite bitsy, and their verbal communication skills were nil, at first. However, there was an inherent theme of ardent hammers, and the renewed glow that coruscated on the walls left them unsurprised but stoically impressed. Wonka believes that their work has paid off, so why is he trapped in his secret Happy Place with a bottle of snozzberry wine and a listening audience?

The Oompa-Loompas were skillful in their handiwork, and not a single gloss was forgotten when reconstruction began. However, they were not completely competent with their location change due to some rusty adjustments to verbal communication. Wonka intended on having his own hiding place in the original plans, instructing them to build a large room with abundant space for him to roam around in an aimless crying jag. One of the Loompas misread the instructions and instead drilled a small, circular room with slight space into the stark corridor from the Experiment Lab to the Nut-Sorting Room. He was timorous when he informed Willy Wonka about the mishap, but surprisingly, Wonka was willing to take whatever he could get.

In this small expanse, Wonka can barely stretch his legs out. He hugs them close to his chest, fidgeting against the wall. His eyes are closed—or, at least, he seems to think so in this cordial gloom that cannot drape the silhouettes of a tall man and three ungainly acquaintances that arch their backs and snarl with blameless glee.

The tall shadow chortles. _Oh, William, I was almost losing hope in you._

Wonka shakes his head, reaching out for the wine bottle and the concomitant brandy snifter. He promptly pours himself a drink, careful enough to avoid spilling past the lips of the glass. He downs it covetously, wiping away any droplets with his thumb. Wonka pokes at his injured cheek and is relieved to find that the cuts have faded away; not even a glassy scar remains.

Back in Loompaland, there were two things the Oompa-Loompas worshiped: the cocoa bean and the snozzberry. The cocoa bean is an entity to the Oompa-Loompas because of its sweet taste and how arduous it is to find them; they believe that because of its rarity, the cocoa bean is the manifestation of a god that is always watching after them. However, snozzberries are believed to originate from the spilt blood of a Snozzwangler. The beast laid still in the grass, and the entity they worshiped caused the blood to prickle into ripe patches of red berries as a sign of great generosity.

Snozzberries have the ability to heal anyone who consumes them, especially if liquefied into wine. Wonka remembers seeing a gravely injured Oompa-Loompa with his arms gnawed ruthlessly by a hungry Hornswoggler. His chances of surviving were dim until several nameless Loompas presented him with a briskly-made bowl of wine. Wonka was amazed at how the wound seemed to be inspirited so quickly with no remnants left behind. He was desperate to heal himself, so he drank the rest of the bowl, much to the frantic chagrin of the other Oompa-Loompas.

_You're such a restless child._ The tall shadow chides Wonka, always knowing what the younger one is thinking. _That kind of hangover you got is twice as terrible as a regular hangover! Although, it's unsurprising that you would disobey somebody…to you, everything in the world is sweet._

Wonka balks from shadow when he advances further. Wonka is pouring another glass, trying not to acknowledge the older man's spotless dental uniform and gloved hands that stroke his face. The taller shadow realizes Wonka's distress, but does not pull away. Instead, he lets another chuckle seep through his teeth.

_Well…there are many sweet things. Even I can realize that._

"You're a sick old man," Wonka snaps, swigging the wine hastily. He drops the glass and the other three voices pipe up, thrumming in the chocolatier's ears.

_Says you!_—the first voice interjected with nasally emphasis—_You have the sweetness of an old ashcan!_

"Well, weren't you the one who told me not to fight it?"

_That's nonsense_—the second voice, deep and unintelligible—_We went in, but you went in and didn't listen to a single thing a single thing we say unless you don't want to and you didn't want to, huh, oh you did too!_

_The truth is, Wonka, we are the guilty ones_—the third voice is the most frightening, as it speaks with equivocal analysis—_but have you ever been acquainted with the term, "guilty by association"?_

Wonka plugs his fingers into his ears, humming fervidly. The colors reappear, but they are unbecoming to Wonka. Before, they shimmered and beckoned like the essence of something supernatural. Now they only flare up with unmitigated churlishness. Sometimes, Wonka sees them concoct themselves into the likenesses of vile, smiling faces. Other times, they merely mold into negligent shapes; frowzy basics and childlike beasties betray reality, extending themselves towards Wonka, as if offering him an elusive secret. The main form that introduces itself to him is an enlarged mosquito that almost—

_Almost appears to be a Vermicious Knid?_ The tall shadow enquires, dragging his fingers down Wonka's face again. _Oh, is it that beast again?_

"Stop doing that!" Wonka jolts onto his feet, flailing his arm across the room. However, he appears to have missed and the gentle fingers now glide across Wonka's face in a harsh slap. Wonka gasps, breathing as if he had been submerged for the longest time. "Don't touch me again."

_Again? William, is this another perverted fantasy you've had?_

"You're the perverted one." Wonka barks, feeling the film of tears in his eyes. "You—_did_—you did that to her, not me."

_Now, I never touched you once, so why start now?_

_Because he's a gargantuan hypocrite_—Third Voice scolds Wonka—_If he was sorry, he wouldn't have done it._

"I didn't. He did. He always did it!"

There is a dense silence for a moment. Wonka is near-convulsive, now, his knees buckling at every misstep he takes.

"You told me," he cries weakly, "that there is nothing sweet in this world…you told me that you'd prefer a street-rat over me."

_Now, listen to your father, Wonka—_

"You're _not_ my father. You're not, and you know that. Even if you raised me, you didn't love me. You did what you wanted to that poor girl, and she's not the only one. There was a poor woman…I think her name was Mom. She left and kissed me goodbye when I was two. You locked me away; you didn't want me, you just wanted money and you wanted me to scream every night, that's why I stopped. I don't want to listen to you anymore. Please, just _go away_."

The tall shadow has faded into obscurity, but a fountain of outraged voices fall and rise in slatternly pitches. They appear dimly lit, but their characteristics are hellish. First Voice is svelte and prematurely balding, with a crooked tie on his neck; Second Voice is portly, with an unnervingly guileless grin, and Third Voice's face looks rotting, accompanied with yellowing teeth and a curved nose.

_Abused you, my rusted can you just you nothing you are you nothing but—lowly, ungrateful, inbred basket case!—surprising how excitable you are when you were—washing your bum for 50 cents a rag! So why should you?—why you you why why you're a nasty too you hypocrite is a hypocrite is just a bad just a bad bad word and a bad bad thing!—very isn't even the half of it—is there anything else you'd like to?—I dare you to open your ass-witted mouth again and say—like it liked you like always liking it hey everyone, gather round, gather while he likes it!—_

Wonka does not comprehend the silence when it is over; he is sick to his knees and feels that the blankness is temporary. Anything—a footstep, a hiccough that doesn't sound like his own—scares him. He believes to hear the underwater jeers of children and gags, muffling the sound with his arm. The last thing he needs is…

* * *

"Where is he?" Veruca demands brusquely, folding her arms. A Guide-Loompa is leading them down the looped hallway, and her feet are very tired. "I don't want to wait all day."

"Now, young lady," Grandpa Joe interrupts, "you can't just stomp your feet and demand that Wonka show up immediately."

"She doesn't have to," Mr. Salt says, smiling with self-imposed grandness. "I'll have him by the neck if he keeps my little Veruca waiting for too long."

"I see where she gets her charm. Can't you two just be patient? He's doing the best he can."

"Patience is a virtue, but not a bag of riches."

The Guide-Loompa stops in his tracks. The train of visitors does the same, but he does not turn to face them. He remains tranquilly quiet with seldom movement.

Mike squints at the midget, and then turns to his father. "Do you think he's actually an African pygmy, and not an Oompa-Loompa?"

Mr. Teavee frowns at his son. "Mike, that's very disrespectful."

"But it's true, isn't it? I mean, there's no such thing as Loompaland. I read National Geographic, too, and is it more than coincidence that this _Loompaland_ has all the disgusting plant life, hot temperatures, and wild beasts that resemble the same biomes in Africa?"

Mr. Teavee nods, considering his son's words. Charlie Bucket looks at Mike dubiously. When Mike notices this and snaps at him, Charlie asks, "Why are you so doubtful of Mr. Wonka? What do you have against him?"

"I don't have anything against him," Mike rolls his eyes, "but he's scamming all of us! All these rooms, his stupid candy, and these things? It's all an act!"

"And how do you know that?"

"He's crazy and making money off of it. Are you really too stupid to see that?"

"Alright, alright! That's enough!" Grandpa Joe raises his voice, causing the Salts and the Teavees' heads to turn. "I don't know what you kids have against the good man! I worked with him for 25 years and he is a pure genius. You're all acting too fussy and cynical for your own good. You can't explain magic. You just enjoy it."

As if to add light to the senile man's words, an orange circle in the wall swings open and Willy Wonka falls onto the floor. His top hat topples off of his head. Charlie picks it up and offers a hand, to which Wonka declines.

"Are you OK?" Charlie asks.

Wonka ignores the question, but withdraws his hat from Charlie's hands. "Oh, I'm guessing you all missed me while I was gone?"

"Not really," Mike retorts.

"Well, you haven't stopped mumbling, so that's disappointing. Don't worry. Augustus and Violet are OK, before you ask. They're laid up in the Doll Hospital as of now, and their parents are there to comfort them."

"Mr. Wonka, pardon my intrusion, but aren't you concerned about what the parents will do when this is over?" Mr. Teavee inquires.

"I wouldn't worry about it. Their injuries are very minor and they will be tended to twenty-four-seven."

"If anything happens to my little Veruca, I'll see to it that you're a penniless beggar." Mr. Salt warns Wonka gravely. To his surprise, Wonka turns to him and laughs undauntedly.

"If you've ever looked at the fine print of every tourism feat, you would know that the actual head position is not responsible for whatever endangerment your child faces, especially since I thoroughly warned those two not to disobey me. Also, you can't sue if I take your daughter to the Hospital and have her repaired ten-fold without the parent's payment."

"You're joking?"

"Nope!" Wonka laughs again. "You're really weird."

The children chirp with many questions, such as where are we going next and will Violet always be a blueberry and what's this special prize you've been blabbing about? Wonka answers them all carelessly, but the question that disturbs him is when Veruca traces over a large stitch across the cup of his gloved palm and asks: "How'd you get that?"

"Hmm." Wonka answers unsteadily. "Sometimes, I don't even know. Ha. Clumsy me."

* * *

**A/N: It's a wonder how I am able to keep writing when I have a summer reading assignment to finish, lol.**

**Well, I apologize if this intermission was unnecessary, but I felt that if I continued onto Veruca and Mike immediately, it would get monotonous, and we don't want that, now, do we? Also, I wanted to build Wonka's character a little more, just to see what is going on in his demented psyche. And all I can say is...****_yikes_****. I wasn't expecting to throw an abusive father into the mix, but that won't be the only reason for Wonka's insanity. Don't want to travel down the beaten path too much :)**

**Happy 4th of July! Hopefully, you've enjoyed it, and please leave a review telling me what you think. Thank you and let freedom ring~**

**-Peace from the gun-troper**


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